


feast when i conquer

by 1sleepydormouse (AlderBee), AlderBee



Series: saturnine [12]
Category: Archie Comics, Archie Comics & Related Fandoms, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Depression, Dissociation, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Loneliness, Touch-Starved, allusion to teen prostitution, family neglect, promiscuous Jughead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-09-16 13:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16955163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlderBee/pseuds/1sleepydormouse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlderBee/pseuds/AlderBee
Summary: Even as a child, Betty was considered very clingy. Whenever possible, she would be near her mother or father, asking for hugs or cuddles or hand-holding. Before her brother and sister grew too old, she would seek comfort from them as well, enjoying nights piled on the couch or hiding away in narrow pillow forts.





	1. feast when in conquer

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my favorite 'saturnine' additions <3

Splashing cold water on her face, Betty closed her eyes against the cold, concentrating on the thin trails of icy water soaking into the collar of her shirt. Fingers already cold from the frigid social sciences classroom, her skin felt strangely warm in comparison.

The contrast was enough to bring Betty back into her skin, forcing her to focus on the empty bathroom around her and the sharp staccato of running water against the tiles.

She felt a little bit of guilt, ducking out of class in the middle of a group project, but her ability to focus was getting shakier with each passing minute and Betty needed to get out before anyone noticed her lack of concentration.

Instances of losing time and falling out of focus was happening more and more these days, the ends of her cardigan frayed where she continuously picked at it to keep her attention from straying.

Pushing up her sleeves, she cupped handfuls of cold water and rubbed them into her bare forearms, fingers running across raised lines of healing skin. Her nerve endings felt electrified with each passing run of water, keeping her anchored. Goosebumps blossomed uncomfortably up and down her legs, and after another moment, Betty pulled her cardigan back down, hoping that the discomfort of damp sleeves would keep her grounded just a bit longer.

Betty couldn’t describe it. This thing that was wrong with her. There were a lot of possible diagnoses, endless pages and links on the internet that gave excuses and reasons for the strangeness that lurked in her body.

There wasn’t any pain. Honestly, there wasn’t much of anything.

That was _the problem_.

For a while – she was losing track of how long it has been since the first time – Betty found herself simply fading out of the present. Things became too slow and too heavy, and before she knew it, an empty hour or two had passed.

This gradual loss of time had alarmed her at first, but as they started to increase with each passing day, Betty found herself caring less and less.

No.

No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t that Betty didn’t care. It was just getting too hard, too exhausting to devote herself to finding a solution.

With a shaky breath, Betty turned the water off and propped herself against the rim of the sink. Squeezing her eyes shut, she took deep breaths that filled her lungs into a nearly painful fullness before forcing it out. Counted the seconds between each inhale and exhale.

By this point, Betty had mentally drafted a short list of things that stopped these weird episodes of disassociation. Cold water. Digging dull nails into the tender meat of her palms. Shallow drags of a sharp blade against the thin skin of her arms and thighs. The worn down teddy bear keychain she kept on her purse, nearly worn down from constant touching. Forcing herself to hold her breath until her lungs ached. Long runs that caused all of her joints to ache like hot thunder.

Some of these were worse than others. Betty felt ashamed of the cutting, only relying on it when she felt desperate enough. If she tried holding her breath in class, the others would look at her strangely (and the embarrassment helped sometimes, but it wasn’t something she wanted to do often).

Betty Cooper was on track to be valedictorian. A star on the track team. A favorite on the debate team. She couldn’t risk being seen as a freak who couldn’t concentrate for longer than 15 minutes at a time.

Immediately, Betty wished she had her purse with her. Wished she had easy access to her keychain, craving the softness of teddy bear fur under her fingertips.

If only that was what she was craving.

Opening her eyes, Betty stared at her reflection with bloodshot eyes.

If only she could sleep. If only she could get herself back on track.

If only, if only, if only.

Betty’s last full night of restful sleep was two weeks ago.

Ronnie was feeling generous, needing some female companionship and decided to throw an impromptu sleepover. It was just the two of them, but it was everything Betty needed. Watching movies while cuddled on a couch. Painting each other’s toes. Playing with each other’ hair. The night ended with the two of them in Veronica’s massive bed. As soon as her friend was unconscious, Betty curled into Ronnie’s space, comforted by the feel of another body close to hers.

Touch.

 

To feel someone’s solid presence against hers.

Even as a child, Betty was considered very clingy. Whenever possible, she would be near her mother or father, asking for hugs or cuddles or hand-holding. Before her brother and sister grew too old, she would seek comfort from them as well, enjoying nights piled on the couch or hiding away in narrow pillow forts.

As kids grow older, they crave freedom, the ability to prove how mature and grown-up they were becoming.

Somehow, Betty missed this stage. As the years passed, she continued to gravitate close to family and friends. Some didn’t give it a second thought, offering a hand or an arm that Betty happily clung to, feeling comforted and happy. This didn’t mean that Betty didn’t mind some independence. Even she could appreciate a bit of alone time, silence shared with no one else.

Betty had never considered herself attached to any single person. She just loved to be with people. They didn’t have to talk or do anything. Being close to others simply felt right.

Felt necessary.

But as she grew older, as her friends grew older, they began to pull away. Not completely. They were still dear friends. Her family still loved just as strongly . . . but they couldn’t understand her constant requests for physical attention. Betty was no longer a child, after all. They couldn’t understand why she asked for hugs so often, shied away when she reached out for a hand. They had things to do, other stuff to focus on. Even her parents were a bit concerned about her habit to squeeze herself on the couch between them when there were plenty of other seats freely available.

Was she ok? Was something bothering her? Did she have something important to say?

And Betty didn’t want to concern them.

Even she started to notice that other people her age didn’t need to be so close to others as much as she did.

So she stopped asking . . . waiting for the moments when Ronnie or her parents thoughtlessly reached out to give her a hug or a kiss.

Betty began to wonder if maybe just the little offerings were doing more harm than helping.

With shaking hands Betty grabbed a few paper towels to wipe at her face and the damp hair at her temples. She was getting so pale, feeling hollow in a way she couldn’t explain.

Why did she have to be like this?

Why couldn’t she be normal?

Was she crazy?

The sudden onslaught of frustrated tears burned at her throat, chest, and eyes.

She was so _tired._

The sudden sounds of slamming doors and lockers snapped Betty out of her thoughts, hot tears running tracks down her face. Not ready to go back out into the hallway, Betty turned to the farthest bathroom stall, locking herself in and climbing onto the toilet, taking a seat on the tank with her feet planted on the toilet lid.

Digging her scarred palms into her eyelids, Betty struggled to breathe through the urge to sob, trying to stay a silent as possible while other girls came and went through the bathroom. Their giggles and gossip echoing around her like hollow echoes.

Betty sat like that for what felt like hours, not moving or opening her eyes until the bathroom and hallways became still: the rest of her peers back in class. Dragging her hands down her face, Betty’s breath stuttered on her next inhale.

God, she was so tired.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she squinted at the stall door. She could think of nothing worse than going back out there and pretending everything was okay. She had been pretending or so long, and Betty didn’t think she had any more strength left in her to keep on going.

If only she knew what was wrong with her. If only she knew how to find out or who to ask.

Staring blankly at the stall, her eyes blindly followed the trail of sharpie and carvings that followed the wood grain. He loved her. She loved him. She hate her. Someone was a slut.

Phone numbers . . .

A name pulled Betty out of her unconscious perusal of the door, everything else blurring out of focus.

Jughead Jones.

Betty admittedly didn’t know much about the famed Jughead. Most of what she knew was based on gossip. Lies maybe, but when the same stories were repeated over and over, there had to be some truth, right?

_Don’t cross Jughead Jones._

_He does what he wants._

_The teachers hate him._

_The athletes hate him._

_Bullies don’t dare to touch him; Jughead Jones knows too much._

_Call Jughead for a good time. Boy or girl. He doesn’t care._

There were rumors that the bad boy was living on the streets, letting strangers pick him up in their cars for a fee. Others said that he didn’t even care about the money, just liked to think of himself as some kind of power-tripping sexual deviant.

Rumors were that he was _very good_.

Rumors or not, Betty could appreciate how Jughead looked. They shared a few classes together (not that he attended with any regularity), and when she did catch a glimpse of him, she could see why people were so open to be seduced by him. Tall, strong, and solid. He had an aura of no-nonsense sensuality. Cupid-bow lips. Seductive, half-lidded eyes. Messy hair that gave him a “just got fucked” look.

Jughead was sexy. And he knew it.

Used it.

Weaponized it.

Betty would be surprised if he even knew she existed.

Leaning forward in her seat, Betty looked at his name, carved permanently into the cheap wood. Numbers crudely printed beneath the messy lettering.

Betty wondered.

Desperately.

She touched the numbers with a trembling fingertip.

She was so tired.

 

Betty felt hyper aware of the small stall, the rustling sound of stiff clothing, the loud clicking of her phone as she pulled up a blank chat and typed in Jughead’s phone number. Her heart thundered in her chest, eyes sour as she watched herself take this first step into something completely insane.

 

=Betty: Is this Jughead?=

 

Resettling on the toilet, Betty’s leg shook with nervousness, clutching her phone tightly in her hand and waiting for the responding vibration. She was beyond focusing, the chances of her going back to class and actually hearing anything from her teachers was non-existent. Might as well send creepy messages to a virtual stranger.

 

Her phone buzzed alive in her palm, and Betty nearly slipped from the toilet before hunching over the glowing screen.

 

=Jughead: Who wants to know=

 

Betty licked at her dry, cracked lips. Holding the phone close to her face, she thought about what she wanted to say.

 

=Betty: It’s Betty. We are in the same sociology class.=

 

It took a good two minutes for a response to come back

 

=Jughead: How did you get this number=

 

Betty paused. Should she tell the truth? Glancing back up at the bathroom stall door, she stared at the phone number. Jughead was going to make some assumptions if she told him that she found his number in the bathroom. Were his assumptions going to be wrong? Squeezing her eyes shut, Betty tried to concentrate, tried to make herself admit why she was making contact with Jughead. Admit what she wanted.

 

The phone number on the bathroom stall was for sex. Even Betty knew that . . . but it . . . it wasn’t what she wanted.

 

Not from Jughead.

 

Not from anyone.

 

But she needed . . .

 

Needed.

 

=Betty: The girl’s bathroom. It’s written on the stall door.=

 

The next text came five minutes later, which gave Betty the right amount of time to regret her honesty and silently panic.

 

=Jughead: wat do u want=

=Betty: I don’t want anything.=

=Jughead: yeah we both know thats a lie. perfect B Coop dznt seem like the girl 2 call stall #s=

=Betty: No. I mean, I don’t want what you think I’m asking for=

=Jughead: and what do u thnk I think ur asking 4=

 

This round-about texting was giving Betty a migraine. She imagined that Jughead would drag this on and on just to have fun with her, but she wasn’t in the mood. If this didn’t work out, then Betty could just pull out. Pretend this stupid plan had never happened.

 

Betty knew that this was going to be interpreted wrong. But she was beyond explaining herself. Jughead was a nobody. What they had between them was nothing. Just strangers who shared a class.

 

Tears of exhaustion burned at the back of her eyes as she tapped at her phone.

 

=Betty: Just, how much for an hour?=

=Jughead: well that clarifies nothing=

=Betty: Please.=

 

A minute of waiting.

 

=Jughead: 100=

 

Holy shit, this guy must be rolling in dough. Betty didn’t let it deter her. This was her idea.

 

Only an hour.

 

=Betty: Deal. How do you want to do this?=

 

Jughead’s next text was an address to a motel ten minutes out from the other side of town.

 

=Jughead: mt me there tonight=

=Jughead: cash=

=Jughead: we can do wtvr=

=Jughead: new cust promo=

 

Betty let out a shaky breath. What the fuck was she doing?

 

* * *

 

Half way through the last class of the day, Betty had given up. The teacher was more than happy to excuse her to the nurse where she got an excuse note to go home and rest. The nurse was kind but dismissive, already busy with a few athletes who were complaining about over-extended muscles. Note in hand, Betty climbed into her car and began to drive aimlessly around town.

 

Nervous about her “appointment” with Jughead, she couldn’t bring herself to stop at a coffee shop or the library to work on homework. Her brain constantly gravitated between blanking out or running a thousand miles an hour through disjointed thoughts and emotions. After the second time she ran her car over the median line, Betty pulled off into the parking lot for one of the few liquor stores in town.

 

Killing the engine, she dragged herself into the back seat, curling into a ball before pulling her coat over her head and torso. Laying her phone by her head, she drifted, letting her eyes unfocus and her brain to disengage.

 

While it wasn’t always safe to do so, Betty found it easier and easier to simply let herself disconnect. These moments were the new “naps,” hardly restful but it gave her some time to safely lose consciousness without _completely_ losing consciousness.

 

The aches dulled into the background, receding from the constant ache of skin and joints and misfiring nerve endings.

 

Here she could stop fighting and let herself fall apart, ignoring the desperate need for someone to hold her together.

 

Soon.

 

Soon.

 

The harsh buzz of her phone’s silent alarm brought Betty back into herself, the car saturated in early night chill. The sky was an inky blue above her, and she curled into herself for a moment, shivering against the cold before slowly unfolding herself. Each muscle seemed to protest, but Betty powered through, climbing back to the front seat before setting her GPS and driving towards the outskirts of town.

 

It wasn’t until Betty saw the glow of the motel sign that she began to feel nervous. Her palms felt damp and clammy and her knee began to shake, up and down. Her mind ran with possibilities: What if Jughead wasn’t there? What if Jughead was there with other people? When she knocked on the door, would she cross the paths with some stranger . . . or even someone else from school, another passing “customer” hiding their face in shame? What would Betty do?

 

The rumors that would echo in the hallways at school.

 

Despite her nerves, Betty found herself sure of her decision. As crazy as this was, parking at a dirty motel, climbing out of her car, and walking to one of the furthest rooms, Betty felt strangely settled. Like maybe this was right.

 

Like maybe Betty was going to finally get what she needed.

 

The thought made her want to run faster.

 

Betty had left everything in her car, completely empty handed except for the keys and cash hidden away in her coat. Wrapping her coat tight around her, she approached the room number Jughead had texted her, unable to see into the room aside from the light framing the thick curtains inside.

 

There was no turning back.

 

Betty didn’t _want_ to turn back.

 

She knocked the door.

 

Her arms were wrapped tightly around her when the door swung open, motel lamp light framing Jughead as he looked down at her. It wasn’t until this moment that Betty noticed how tall he was, thin but solid as he towered over her, hooded eyes looking her over before scanning the air behind her. His quick perusal of her didn’t last more than a second, stepping back and waving her in before shutting the door closed behind her.

 

The motel room was small, a singular king sized bed, dresser, desk and chair, old-model television, lamps and bedside tables framed by ugly green wallpaper peeling near the ceiling. The motel was old, but the room smelled clean.

 

Jughead’s duffle sat on the desk chair, his coat thrown over it. The bedspread was wrinkled where he was probably lying, watching television and waiting for her.

 

Betty released the death grip she had on her elbows, loosening the hold she had on herself.

“You can throw your jacket where ever,” Jughead said in passing, heading back towards his duffle. He looked surprisingly normal in his jeans, hoodie, and dirty Converses. Betty wasn’t sure exactly what she expected, but she found herself grateful to see Jughead in regular clothing, relaxing a little as she settled in this strange situation.

 

Unfortunately, her ease ended prematurely as she watched Jughead peel his hoodie off, the thin, white t-shirt underneath catching on the thick fabric to expose Jughead’s bareback. Betty nearly squeaked in surprise, quickly averting her eyes as he pulled his shirt back down (barely skimming the tops of his jeans) before dropping his sweater on his bag. Running his fingers through his hair, he turned back around, smirking at the blush on her cheeks.

 

“Like what you see, babe?”

 

Betty stiffened at the question, face burning with embarrassment and shame. “Please don’t call me that.”

 

Jughead snorted, rolling his eyes. “Really? You gonna pay the school slut $100 to _not_ use pet names?”

 

Betty wanted to _die._

 

Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to focus on her breathing. She was here for a reason. She was here for a reason. She was here for a reason.

 

Betty was here for a reason.

 

Focus.

 

She opened her eyes, but couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact, focus drifting downwards to the questionably clean carpet. “So, how do you do this?”

 

In her peripheral, she could see Jughead shrug before crossing his arms over his chest, shirt pulling taught over his arms and torso. It wasn’t meant to be intimidating, his hip cocked to the side, legs spread slightly. Jughead was displaying himself, like . . . like, he was some kind of product. He exuded confidence, fully aware of how attractive he was and reminding her that it was all hers for the taking. “You tell me.”

 

As appealing at it was, this _terrified_ her.

 

Taking her terror with both hands, Betty emptied out her lungs and took a leap.

 

Unfolding herself, she reached into her coat pocket to take out the folded cash. Placing it by the television, she forced herself to look Jughead in the eyes. “For one hour. I just, I just want to sleep.”

 

Jughead’s eyebrows shot up, thrown by the request. “Wha-”

 

“Please,” Betty’s voice gave out, thin as a whisper as she motioned to the bed. “I don’t want to explain. On the phone, you said you’d do anything. And I just want to sleep. Please, just hold me and let me . . .” Blinking to force the tears back, she turned away grab at her coat, yanking it off her shoulders, utterly exhausted and running out of words.

 

She needed sleep. She needed arms wrapped around her and a warm body against hers. If she was going to pay $100 for it, then she was going to damn well get what she paid for.

 

Jughead was deathly silent, watching her remove her coat and carefully fold it, before making his way to the bed. “How do you want me then?”

 

He stated it like a normal question, voice light and free of any judgment. It was enough to untense Betty’s shoulders as she looked back at Jughead, his head cocked and waiting. She looked down at his jeans. “Um, without the jeans, please. You can, you can wear boxers or pajama pants or whatever.”

 

“Gotcha,” Jughead made quick work of peeling off his tight jeans, leaving them in a pile on the floor. In only his t-shirt and boxer briefs, Jughead reached for the bed, hooking fingers over the comforter and pausing before looking up at Betty for direction.

 

At her short nod, he untucked the comforter, blankets, and sheets before climb in, scooting to the center.

 

Betty tried not to put so much thought into her own state of dress. Back to the bed, she pulled off her sweater, t-shirt, socks, and jeans, leaving herself in a thin camisole and panties. Finding bras uncomfortable, she forwent them when she had enough layers on to hide the fact that she wasn’t wearing one. She was glad today was a no-bra day, grateful that she wouldn’t have to take one off in full view of one of her classmates.

 

Next came off her watch, necklace, and the hair tie that kept her hair up in a tight ponytail, feeling more relaxed with each item that came off.

 

Jughead was silent through it all. The television provided background noise, keeping any awkwardness at bay . . . if Betty tried, she could imagine this as some kind of undefined future: coming home from a long day at work, shedding all of her accoutrements before joining her husband in bed.

 

A nice thought.

 

A pleasant fantasy.

 

With all of her things carefully folded away, she quickly made her way towards the bed, not making eye contact with her classmate before slipping under the bedsheets, forcing herself through her hesitation before inching closer.

 

Jughead moved slowly, like he feared scaring her away, but his body language projected openness, spreading out an arm to give her space to cuddle in.

 

It was a no brainer. Her body moved before she could fully process it, grasping the opportunity to be with someone before the chance could be taken away. The bed was already warm from where Jughead had been relaxing, waiting for her to show up, but his body was a furnace, radiating warmth and it wasn’t until this moment that Betty realized how much she was _craving_ this. It was a struggle to keep herself from simply crushing herself into him, grasping at his skin with boney fingers.

 

She nearly melted as she sunk into the warm space between Jughead’s torso and arm, sinking further into the bed as his arm reached around to pull the covers tightly around them, bringing her closer.

 

A deep “fuck” was whispered under his breath, for what reason, Betty didn’t care. Only that he was suddenly pulling her closer, broad hands making huge comforting sweeps against her back and arms. Betty felt drunk on this, not caring about the tears of relief trickling down her cheeks and soaking into Jughead’s t-shirt.

 

This was heaven.

 

Every thought and ache in her body suddenly silenced, leaving Betty to float in completely nothingness and contentment. The fingers she had wrapped in the fabric of Jughead’s top was the only part of her not completely relaxed and malleable.

 

Jughead was able to easily manipulate her, pulling her further onto his body. “Jesus Christ, finally.”

 

“Huh?” Betty slurred a little, eyelids impossibly heavy.

 

“You were shaking. What the fuck, it’s not that cold outside.”

 

“M’ not cold. Wsn’t cold,” she replied tightening her hold on him, basking in his presence.

 

“Are you, uh, are you all right?”

 

Betty was perfect. Lovely. “M’ good. This is good.”

 

“Al-all right.” He sounded so unsure, and Betty was overcome with the urge to giggle at this new side to the ever confident and sexy Jughead.

 

In response, he just held her closer, arms tight around her shoulder and thumbs rubbing warm circles into her skin.

 

A few more tracks of tears leaked from Betty’s eyes, cold against her cheek.

 

She was so happy.

 

Within moments, she was asleep.

 

* * *

 

When Betty woke up again, it was with a clear mind, and body free of aches. It was a novelty, to feel her limbs slowly waking up before she even opened her eyes.

 

Everything was warm, and a little bit of dreamless sleep seemed to have done wonders.

 

Her body rose and sank in slow increments, moving with the deep breaths of her bedmate.

 

Jughead.

 

With a deep, cleansing breath, she uncurled a little, feeling the joints in her hand and feet before opening her eyes. Jughead was awake. The hand that wasn’t curled around her shoulder was gliding across the screen of his phone, eyes lazily reading whatever was on the screen.

 

Even at this angle he was beautiful. One side of his hair slightly matted down from the pillow, dark eyelashes curled delicately against his skin, and slotted rays of sunlight highlighting his cheekbones.

 

Brain screeching to a halt, Betty blinked at the sun rays.

 

Sunrays?

 

What time was it?!

 

“I can feel your heartbeat racing. Does that hurt?”

 

Betty spared half a thought to note that Jughead had an _amazing_ bedroom voice.

 

“W-what?”

 

“Your heartbeat. It went from resting to panicked in half a second. Doesn’t seem particularly healthy to me.”

 

“What time is it?”

 

With a flip of his thumb, Jughead swiped this screen over to see the time. “It’s 7:30 a.m.”

 

“Oh my God,” Betty groaned. “Why didn’t you wake me up? I can’t, I can’t -” They met up at 10 p.m. the previous night! That was $950 dollars!! How was Betty going to-

 

“Don’t worry about it.”

 

Thoughts disrupted, Betty glanced up at Jughead. Phone placed to the side, he was looking down at her now, taking in her face and making her instinctually blush.

 

“What?”

 

He grinned. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a fountain of pleasant conversation first thing in the morning?”

 

This embarrassment was going to literally kill her. Betty dragged the blankets up to her face in mortification.

 

Jughead laughed before scooting further down into the bed, bringing their faces closer and tightening his arms around her again. “But seriously. Don’t worry about last night. I’ll even give you your $100 back. It’s not like we did anything.” He smirked. “Thought I do have to admit that I was wondering what a night with the lovely Betty Cooper would have been like.”

 

Betty decided to ignore the last part of his statement. “That’s not true. You did help me a lot. I, I haven’t sleep through a full night in ages. Just, keep it.”

 

Jughead accepted it with a shrug, eyes serious as they took in her face. Betty used it as an opportunity to do the same.

 

What a morning of discoveries. Jughead Jones actually knew her (and wondered what sex with her was going to be like . . . which she will take as a compliment). He was unfairly beautiful first thing in the morning. He was . . . kind. Considerate.

 

Such a novelty.

 

Betty dreaded leaving.

 

“Does this happen often?”

 

Looking away from his lips, Betty refocused on his eyes. “Does what happen often?”

 

“Whatever last night was. I don’t know if you realized it, but you were shaking up until we actually climbed into bed. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought you were withdrawing on drugs or something.”

 

Was she really shivering that bad? With her head finally clear, Betty tried to remember her physical state yesterday, but it was hard to think past the static in her own brain. She was so bad at noticing her body sometimes. Last night was a good example.

 

She felt compelled to tell Jughead the truth. “I was recovering,” she started. “From a dissociative episode in the car. It, um, it happens when I don’t get enough sleep.”

 

Jughead mellowed in a long pause before responding. “What keeps you from sleeping?”

 

“Stress probably. My brain doesn’t shut off, and, well, I also have this thing. I get comfort - a lot of comfort - from touch. If I don’t get very much contact for a while, well . . .”

 

“Touch deprivation.”

 

Betty felt relieved by his response. Maybe he understood . . . “Yeah. That.”

 

“Huh.” Jughead clearly had some comments or questions to ask her. How did someone as popular and successful as Betty Cooper suffer from touch deprivation? She had parents and siblings. Loads of friends. Something wasn’t connecting.

 

To Betty’s relief, he didn’t press, and the two of them lay in comfortable silence, counting down the minutes until they had to drive to school for the day.

 

“It was nice to get some restful sleep,” Jughead thought out loud.

 

Tilting her head against the pillow, Betty considered his expression, her hands still resting comfortably against his side. God, he was so warm.

 

“I don’t think I’d mind doing this again. You know, just to sleep. Recharge. It would be nice to share a bed with someone who just wants to cuddle.”

 

Hope bloomed in Betty’s chest, fingers tightening against him.

 

“Off the books,” he smiled down at her. “We’ll be doing each other a favor.”

 

Betty’s responding smile was watery but sincere.

 

“I’d really like that.”


	2. your number saved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was kind and considerate, and somewhere in Betty, she wanted the rest of the world to know. "Stop judging him," she wanted to scream. "You don’t understand just how good he is. How good he can be."
> 
> But also. Betty wanted.
> 
> She wanted this Jughead for herself.

It still felt like a dream. The halls of the school flexing and fading around her like smoke at her fingertips. She felt so  _ aware _ of everyone and everything, that it almost seemed unreal. Walking down the hallway, books in arm, Betty caught a few people watching her pass by, irrationally making her wonder if everyone in school could just tell that she was with Jughead Jones last night.

 

Self-consciously, she tucked her hair behind her ear, stopping at her locker to quickly hide in the mundane actions of switching out materials for the next class. 

 

Did it matter if they knew?

 

Betty felt conflicted. 

 

Leading up to last night, she was a storm of very defined and understandable emotions: desperation, pain, hope, fear. There was too much going on to think about shame. And this morning . . . finding herself in bed with a boy. Whispered conversation. Taking in the warmth of another human being and the rising sun.

 

It all felt too right. Too perfect. Comforting in a way that was the opposite of shameful. In fact, she was already looking forward to the next time, her mind thinking back to her notebook calendar, a small green smiley face on the upcoming date.

 

This was good. Safe. Consensual. Something that Betty didn’t feel inclined to hide away or deny.

 

But . . .

 

But.

 

The chances of anyone understanding . . . anyone who wasn’t Jughead . . . it was impossible. Betty knew that if any of her classmates heard that she spent the night with Jughead in a hotel, their perceptions would immediately leap to sex. After all, wasn’t that an easy leap to make? They were teenagers. Alone and unsupervised.

 

Betty didn’t know much about Jughead’s situation, but she was a wreck. An obvious,  _ bleeding _ , train wreck of a person, and no one seemed to notice. Not her parents. Not Veronica. Not Kevin, or Archie, or any of her friends. The very people that Betty considered closest to her didn’t have a clue. And they . . . they wouldn’t understand. Not at all.

 

They would see this as a rebellion, a shift in Betty’s outward identity. There would be concern . . . the wrong kind. Focused on this fictional night of debauchery and not on the root of Betty’s problem. 

 

And to have Jughead dragged into that. Especially after he helped her so much.

 

He was . . .

 

He was . . .

 

Betty paused in sliding her math textbook into her locker. Jughead understood her. He didn’t judge. At least, last night he didn’t. This morning he didn’t. And that . . . more than sharing a bed, more than touching, more than wordlessly offering her a full night of comfort and uninterrupted sleep . . . that meant so much more than everything to Betty.

 

He was kind and considerate, and somewhere in Betty, she wanted the rest of the world to know.  _ Stop judging him _ , she wanted to scream.  _ You don’t understand just how good he is. How good he can be _ .

 

But also. Betty wanted.

 

This felt like a part of Jughead that was just for her. Something to protect. To savor. 

 

He was already so attractive. Bad boy persona aside, everyone in school agreed that Jughead was a beautiful boy. Once they saw this good side of him, he would be . . . unreachable. Swarmed by adoring high schoolers that would want to be noticed by him. To call him their own.

 

Betty felt weighted down by the thought.

 

She couldn’t.

 

Something warm and solid pressed against her back, moving close before shifting far enough to rest against the lockers beside her. Grabbing her lab notebook, Betty looked up to find herself locked in Veronica's gaze, dark eyes scanning Betty from head to toe.

 

Betty smiled. “Good morning, Ronnie.”

 

“You look perky this morning,” Veronica responded, dark red lips curving into a small smile. “Must have had a good night?”

 

“I just had a really good night of sleep.”

 

Betty watched Veronica visibly stop herself from automatically making a joke about well-endowed bed partners - a well-meaning joke with any of their other friends - before her gaze softened, reaching out pluck invisible lint from Betty’s cardigan before smoothing her blond hair back over her shoulder. “That’s good to hear. I know you’ve been having some trouble sleeping lately. You’ve practically been a well-dressed zombie these past few days.”

 

Betty leaned into her touch, basking in the warmth of Ronnie’s hand on her shoulder, smoothing out the ever-existing tension in her muscles. “Last night was a good night,” Betty breathed. “No dreams. Just some really deep sleep. I actually feel like I had too much of it.”

 

“Hm,” Veronica adjusted Betty’s bangs with a gentle flick of her fingers before leaning back into the locker. “Well, I’m glad you finally got some sleep. We are still in high school after all. Leave all the sleeping disorders for college like everyone else.”

 

Laughing good-naturedly, Betty closed her locker before the two of them started their trek towards class. “I’m working on it.”

 

“But seriously, Betty,” Ronnie looped her arm through Betty’s. “I know we talked about this before, but are you talking to someone about it? You know, like, with a professional?”

 

“I know. And I am.” It was getting worryingly easy to ignore the taste of the lie on her tongue.

 

“Because that last time you were bad I was pretty sure you were in the middle of a heart attack and I don’t need to see you like that ever again.” She arched an eyebrow. “It’s been about a month, and you’ve seemed - well, I don’t want to say ‘okay,’ but you haven’t been that low.”

 

Betty thought about yesterday. How useless she was in the face of everything crawling under her skin. How it all quieted the moment she crawled into bet with Jughead.

 

“I promise. I’m getting help.”

 

Veronica squeezed her arm. “Good. I know I don’t say it all the time, but I love you to bits, Betty Cooper, and I want you to be happy and well-rested.”

 

Betty leaned against her best friend, warmed inside and out. “Love you too, Ronnie.”

 

As the two of them finally reached their classroom, landing in adjacent desks. The room was only half full, students slowly trickling in as they groaned about the previous night’s homework. Betty couldn’t even bring herself to panic over the fact that she hadn’t even touched the assigned worksheet. 

 

Veronica pulled out a mirror to check her lipstick. “Now that I think about it, we have been pretty busy. How does a sleepover this weekend sound? I wanna bounce some cheer routines off of you. You have a good enough grasp of performance and rhythm that your feedback could help.”

 

Pulling out her blank worksheet, Betty began to steadily work her way down the list of mathematical problems, her mind sharp. She almost felt giddy, glancing up just long enough to share a smile with Veronica. “That sounds great. Let me double check my calendar and get back to you?”

 

Snorting, Veronica pushed at Betty’s shoulder. “Smart ass. This is a dumb question, but do you want to come by Friday after school or Saturday morning?”

 

“I’ll let my parents know that I’m going home with you after school Friday. No reason for the extra trip.”

 

“Lovely.” Veronica slipped her mirror away and glanced at Betty’s worksheet for a moment before looking away. “How are your ridiculously busy parents by the way?”

 

Halfway down the worksheet, Betty opened her mouth to answer, but the sudden sight of Jughead Jones sauntering into class, stole the breath from her.

 

Through the rose-colored lense of their shared morning, Jughead looked good. Better. Rested. He still wore smug and superior like a well-worn leather jacket, not bothering to acknowledge anyone as he made his way to the back. He didn’t even glance Betty’s way, focused on the group of similarly clad teens in the far corner. It gave Betty freedom to take in the sharp angles of his chin, the carelessly tousled dark hair, and the long column of his pale neck. Watching him walk closer, Betty held her breath, eyes dropping to her desk as he passed by her, unnecessarily close, the rough texture of his dark jeans tracing a warm track along her arm and shoulder before walking further back.

 

It was just a moment, barely a second, and Betty felt a full body shiver. Jughead so rarely came in contact with others in class. He always walked around the desks, keeping to the walls until he reached his friends. To brush past Betty on purpose, to re-establish this new and tentative contact in such a simple way . . . 

 

Betty remembered to breathe, chest aching.

 

“Wow, rude,” Veronica glared at Jughead’s retreating back. “The desks aren’t that close together, and that was un-fucking-necessary.”

 

“N-no,” Betty insisted, turning back to her friend, struggling to get back into the moment. “It’s fine. He didn’t bump me or anything. It’s fine.”

 

“You sure? I don’t mind going back there. Giving him a piece of my mind.” Rolling her eyes, she ran her fingers through her hair. “Jones always looks like he needs to be brought down a peg anyway.”

 

Betty had to choke down a hysterical laugh.  _ Keep it together, Cooper _ . “Yeah. I promise. I’m fine.”

 

To get Veronica off her high horse, Betty quickly transitioned back to their original conversation: both of her parents were busy. Her father a salaryman, and her mother running a successful catering business. With Betty being the only child still at home, her parents felt that it was now okay to refocus their efforts on personal projects. They could now shift from “parents” to “career adults,” and Betty could never fault them for it. Her parents were lovely people. Strong and focused. Too focused sometimes. 

 

List makers. 

 

As their careers took off, success at every turn, it grew on their list of priorities. 

 

It didn’t mean that they didn’t love being parents. It didn’t mean that they loved Betty any less.

 

She was just less of a priority.

 

And that was okay.

 

It had to be.

 

For now, Betty tried to tell Veronica what little she knew about her parents. Anything she could glean was spoken in passing, her parents like specters, disappearing out the door just beyond her sight. Before long, Veronica’s ire shifted from Jughead to Betty’s parents, unimpressed by their obvious priorities. With an elegant roll of her eyes, she snapped something sharp at their expense, the sting tempered by a gentle touch to Betty’s exposed wrist. Betty laughed, leaning into Veronica’s space as she giggled, tucking her pen away before the teacher stepped into the room with the last of the stragglers.

 

Sliding her completed worksheet into her notebook, Betty prepared another sheet, ready to take notes. Everyone shifted gears, the world outside of the classroom no longer in focus. Usually, the transition to perfect student was flawless for Betty. One didn’t reach Valedictorian status without focus and perseverance. She absorbed knowledge like a sponge, eager to apply it to the world just beyond graduation. 

 

It should have been easy. She was finally well rested. She had some girl-time with Ronnie (and it wasn’t even lunch time!). Her homework for the class was done. She was golden.

 

Her attention wasn’t focused on the teacher. The numbers on the board, the words from his mouth, all of it amounted to nothing more than background noise while her attention shifted backwards.

 

Behind her, there was a chorus of turning pages, scribbling pencils, legs shifting on scratched linoleum. Somewhere in all of that sound, sat Jughead.

 

Was he listening to the teacher, or was he passing notes to his friends?

 

Was he looking at her?

 

Was he reminiscing on their shared night?

 

Was he looking forward to their next night together?

 

Was he, was he, was he?

 

His name spiraled, making a home in every crease of her brain. Even now, unfocused eyes on the board, Betty could remember how his chest rose in a steady cadence under her cheek. His warmth. His smell.

 

Betty craved it.

 

Craved Jughead.

 

Her skin itched.

 

A hard tap of chalk on board brought Betty back, nearly jumping in her seat before looking down at her notebook. The sheet was clean, pen held loosely in her fingers. Flexing her hand, she un-cupped her fingers, exposing the scars embedded deeply into her palms. 

 

Furiously red crescents flashed up at her like warning lights.

 

Craving.

 

Maybe . . . maybe this was all Betty was. All she could be. A tangle of sharp cravings that pulled tighter as her bones threatened to fall apart. The edge of a blade, or Ronnie’s arms around her. Her mother’s hands in her hair. The dark comfort of strangers. Jughead.

 

Cravings. All cravings.

 

Betty reached over to trace the scars with her other hand. She wondered how many more cravings she would collect before it was all over.

 

She wondered if it mattered.

 

Her report card, her grades, college.

 

Surely by then her cravings would take over completely. She’d go mad.

 

What then? What now?

 

The sudden rustle of loose paper, snapped Betty out of her thoughts ( _ again? she had actual sleep last night, how was her mind still wandering so much? _ ) The edge of a stack of papers tapped her in the shoulder, prompting her to reach back to take the homework sheets of her classmates. Adding her own to the pile, she held it up for the teacher to take as he walked by. 

 

Her phone vibrated silently in her pocket, three steady cluster of beats against her thigh. While the rest of her class shifted with renewed energy, he glanced at the screen.

 

Jones.

 

She had saved Jughead’s number to her phone under his last name, thinking she would only ever need it to schedule her next fix ( _ another craving, another day _ ). It was jarring to see a text message from him. Curiosity prompted her to swipe her thumb to open the notification. 

 

It was an emoji. And upside down face, smiling.

 

Blinking, Betty stared at it, utterly confused.

 

Then came the next text.

 

A poop emoji.

 

Betty couldn’t help the choking laugh that ripped from her throat, curling forward just a little to hide herself away. Taking a risk, she glanced over her shoulder. Jughead slouched in his seat, arms crossed, eyes focused on something outside the windows. Nonchalant while Toni Topaz chatted beside him, popping gum between her red lips.

 

The sight was oddly comforting.

 

Without responding, Betty tucked the phone back into her pocket.

 

Refocused.

 

The teacher went back to the board.

 

Betty picked up her pen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Saved by Khalid (whom I have been listening to at bedtime because his voice brings me comfort).
> 
> I don’t know how long this fic is going to be, unlike with Playlist Amour (which I had outlined COMPLETELY prior to the first chapter), this one is going to be very off the cuff. 
> 
> That being said, if there is anything you want to see or recommend in this verse, drop me a line on Tumblr! I’m @1sleepydormouse.
> 
> Till next time, lovelies.


	3. silence looks good on you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty closed her eyes, settling into position and comforted by the soft circles Jughead’s thumb rubbed into her skin. Hugs were nice. Head pats were ok. Holding hands was just fine. Sleeping with Veronica made her undeniably happy. But Jughead’s thumb? That tiny pressure of reassuring circles, tracing over and over into a permanent tattoo on her skin?
> 
> It was nirvana.
> 
> Something like home

Football was a big part of their town’s culture. Youth football. High school football. College football. A few die-hards were faithful fans of the state’s professional team, but everyone knew that the latest lineup of players - and a coach in desperate need of retirement - left much to be desired.

 

Betty only knew this much because of her father. Otherwise, she cared little for the sport. The violence and under lining culture of football did not appeal to her at all.

 

Her knowledge of the school’s football team was inescapable: Veronica was in line to be head cheerleader, and Betty shared classes with a good number of the team. Chuck in math. Moose in home economics. Reggie in political science. Archie Andrews in organic chemistry. They all seemed like decent enough guys. Relatively respectful in class if a bit rowdy around their friends. They were all surprisingly smart, which made them great partners for group projects. Betty envisioned football scholarships in their futures, playing in the big arena of college sports.

 

Except for Archie, really.

 

One had to give the boy points for trying. Because he really did.

 

Some people were meant for academics and learning.

 

Archie was not.

 

He barely scraped by on his grades. It was almost too painful for Betty to witness. Most of his academic success was due to his charm. He new how to spin words, speaking with just the right amount of innocence and respect to get most teachers to take pity on him. After all, he was quarterback. The success of their school’s team literally stood on his shoulders.

 

Which didn’t seem to bother him much.

 

Their recent organic chemistry lab, however? The poor guy was sweating bullets.

 

Kevin was eating up like a kid in a taffy store.

 

Betty and her partner was currently ahead schedule, watching their setup and recording reactions in 2 minute intervals. Kevin and Archie were paired up in the table right in front of them, and Betty was riveted by the strange dance they followed.

 

“That’s great, Archie! You see, we have to use this particular measurement to ensure that we stay within the methods outlined in the lab notes.” Kevin beamed, stroking Archie’s ego as he poured the material in the beaker. “Don’t wanna risk an explosion.”

 

Archie chuckled uneasily, leaning away from the beaker like he was afraid it would shatter at a moment’s notice. “As cool as that would be . . . would definitely make this class more interesting.”

 

“And probably destroy our lab grade in the process. But, _semantics_.” Kevin lightly tapped at Archie’s shoulder.

 

“Ah, man.” Archie groaned. “This science stuff is beyond me. You are really saving my ass here, Kevin.” He perked up. “I guess I’ll go grab another beaker for this next part.”

 

As soon as he stepped away Kevin spun around to lean against Betty’s table. “What what a _fine ass_ it is.”

 

“Cool it, white boy,” Nancy rolled her eyes from her seat beside Betty, scribbling down the time they increased the temperature of the flame on their own project. “Your hard on for Archie Andrews can be seen from outer space.”

 

“Like that’s even a problem,” Kevin arched an eyebrow, flashing his teeth. “Archie has been annoyingly blind to it, which is just a challenge for me to up the ante.”

 

“Ever considered the fact that the bag of bricks is just too heterosexual to get the memo?”

 

“Not according to what I heard~”

 

Nancy snorted. “Handjob rings in the locker room don’t count. I’m pretty sure that’s just a story to annoy the athletes. Damages their ‘no homo’ culture.”

 

Betty shrugged. “Well, he does keep his nails very clean?”

 

“Exactly!” Kevin threw his arms out, leaning into Betty’s space and resting his head on her shoulder. Betty giggled as she rested her cheek against his forehead. “I mean, basic hygiene. That is a serious tell, especially for a high school boy.”

 

“Don’t encourage him, Bets.” Nancy adjusted her lab goggles. “This is just a hormone-filled delusion.”

 

“Girl, I’m one of the very few out, gay men in this hell hole of a college. I gotta take what I can get: closeted jock or not. The worst he can say is ‘no’ and I move on the next dumb neanderthal.” Kevin straightened his sharply ironed collar before returning to his own table with a dazzling smile, watching Archie come back with a beaker that was just a little too small, clearly proud of his small contribution.

 

Betty felt a little dazed, amazed that she ever crushed on him her freshman year. Sure, it didn’t last much longer than a month, but it still amazed her.

 

She tried to imagine still being “in love” with the red-headed dork. She shivered.

 

“I don’t understand why they are bothering with this lab,” Nancy groaned, ignoring the show before them before recording the last line of data. “This is pretty much a gimmie-assignment. No thought is necessary for this.”

 

Betty smiled, finishing her own notes before reaching over to cut the flame. “It’s an away game this weekend. The athletes and cheerleaders take a bus out at lunch and a good percentage of the student body will be following right behind them. The teachers know that everyone’s already distracted.”

 

“Blue pride, hurrah.” Nancy smirked.

 

“You plan on traveling to the away game?”

 

“Yeah. We are probably gonna head out tomorrow. Caravan it since it’s not really that far away. You plan on coming with?”

 

Betty shook her head. “Probably not. I have a few tutoring sessions lined up later this afternoon and tomorrow.”

 

“All right. Well, if you change your mind, just text me.”

 

“Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

 

The entire student body was abuzz with the upcoming game.

 

Betty was abuzz for something completely different. For the last two weeks, she had been staring at her calendar, counting down the days, hours, and minutes until her second meeting with Jughead. Her sleepover with Veronica did wonders in holding her over, the two of them spending an entire weekend getting mani pedis, massages, and doing each other’s hair. I twas wonderful. Perfect in a way that the associated with Veronica.

 

But she missed that night with Jughead. The strange exhilaration of sharing a bed with a complete stranger.

 

Well, maybe not complete.

 

Since that first night, Betty couldn’t help but be even more aware of Jughead, whether he was in the vicinity or not.

 

Every whispered rumor about him, or even the few times she heard him talking to someone in passing; Betty absorbed it all. Appetite nearly voracious with her need to get a better understanding of the one person to seemed to “get” Betty.

 

(Well, maybe she shouldn’t give him so much credit. But it was enough that he knew the right words in the right order, laying them over Betty like a warm blanket at the right time.)

 

It was impossible to gather anything during the classes they did share. Betty had a bad habit of sitting near the front of the class, her back always facing Jughead, who always parked himself in the last row of desks. She had no idea if he bothered pulling anything out to take notes, or how he sat at his seat. Did he make faces at his neighbors or did he just stare out of the classroom window, glancing at the clock while he counted down the minutes in the day?

 

The dumbest little details, but Betty needed to know them.

 

Did he carry anything in that ratty backpack he always had slung over his shoulder? Was his locker covered in underground band stickers?

 

What kind of music did he like?

 

Thoughts of Jughead played like never-ending white noise in the back of Betty’s mind, ever present behind all of her responsibilities, the time she spent with her friends, and as she settled down for sleep.

 

Now, she couldn’t stop the anticipation of seeing him again.

 

Tonight.

 

So close.

 

She felt breathless just thinking about it.

 

Betty felt a little better this time. Spending a weekend with Veronica and getting together with Kevin and the others after school was doing wonders in keeping her steady in her own skin. Just seeing the days of the calendar get crossed out, bringing her closer to her scheduled night with Jughead . . . she wondered if the anticipation of it all kept her grounded.

 

She almost wished she had a little bit of her usual anxiety to distract her.

 

Because this time, this time she had all of her facilities. She couldn’t hide behind the desperation of an impending episode, to help them transition from the doorway to the bed.

 

What would they say? What was Jughead expecting?

 

What did she expect?

 

Oh, yes. Betty almost preferred her debilitating anxiety over this terrifying anticipation.

 

She was so scared.

 

But not enough to cancel tonight.

 

She couldn’t.

 

She needed this.

 

_“It was nice to get some restful sleep.”_

 

_“I don’t think I’d mind doing this again. You know, just to sleep. Recharge. It would be nice to share a bed with someone who just wants to cuddle.”_

 

Betty took a deep breath as she closed her lab notebook.

 

Maybe Jughead needed this, too.

 

* * *

 

The town felt strangely abandoned when Betty drove herself to the motel. She had expected it with the football game, but it still surprised her to pull into a parking spot nearly a full 15 minutes before their meeting time.

 

(It was easier to blame the lack of traffic than the fact that Jughead wasn’t in school today, and maybe she was a little worried).

 

The sun was nearly past the horizon, casting the parking lot and building in a weird half-glow, highlighted by the orange-weathered streetlights. The concrete building looked cold and uninviting, all sharp corners and cold iron. In this light, one wouldn’t be able to identify the shingled roof as dishwater green, which probably added to it’s “charm” in clear daylight. Located a few miles outside of town, in the middle of nowhere, Betty could see why it was where Jughead based his “operations.”

 

It all looked so anonymous. Nameless. Forgettable.

 

Safe.

 

Taking a few moments to listen to her engine click as it cooled off, Betty quickly slid her wallet and keys into her pocket. With one last fortifying breath, she pulled her jacket tighter around herself and climbed out of the car, shutting it closed behind her before quickly making way to the hotel room they used before.

 

There were no lights seeping around the dark curtains neighboring the large door, but Betty knocked regardless, not surprised when there was no answer. With a sigh, she leaned against the door, facing out into the empty parking lot.

 

Maybe this way, she would be able to see him pull in. What kind of car did he drive? Was he out sick today? If he was, shouldn’t he have texted her to let her know?

 

Betty glanced at her watch, berating herself before running agitated fingers through her bangs. “Get a grip, Cooper. You are here early. Calm the hell down.”

 

Which was easier said than done.

 

Focusing on the cold of the door seeping into her shirt, Betty wondered about worst case scenarios.

 

There wasn’t really one here. Not rationally. If Jughead didn’t show up . . . if he changed his mind, and decided that his time would be better spent with paying customers . . . if this no longer became an option . . .

 

Betty wouldn’t die.

 

The world wouldn’t stop spinning.

 

They only had one night together.

 

One night out of so many. Betty was able to survive before. She could function. She’d be fine.

 

But it would be so hard.

 

It would feel like dying - to know what it was like when someone was able to lie in bed with her and just _accept_ that all she needed was someone there beside her - and go back to drifting alone until the next dissociative episode.

 

But she could survive.

 

She would.

 

The solid tap of thick-soled boots against concrete brought Betty back, her attention snapping to her left where Jughead was approaching.

 

His attention was on his phone, thumb rapidly tapping against the surface as he ambled closer. His dark hair was wildly tousled, clothes just on the edge of disheveled (though it was honestly hard to tell, since disheveled dark clothes was his default look). A duffle back was slung over his shoulder, bouncing against his thigh with each step, bringing Betty’s attention to the artful rips that invited glimpses to the pale skin beneath.

 

Before he got too close, Betty could immediately smell the perfume. Women’s perfume, which covered Jughead like a miasma, cloyingly sweet and sharp. Betty could just barely keep herself from a surprised cough before she forced herself to take quiet, shallow breaths.

 

Jughead pocketed his phone as he looked up at her, arching a brow. “Mind if I shower first?”

 

“N-no. A shower sounds great,” Betty quickly responded, eyes dropping to a rip above his kneecap. “Um, I don’t mind.”

 

He smirked, seeing through her attempts to politely not cough. Pulling the room key from his pocket, Jughead slid iit into the reader before pushing the door open. “Yeah. She usually wears a lot of perfume. Probably to seem more attractive. I’ve gone nose blind to it by now.”

 

“O-oh.” Betty stammered, not really knowing how to respond and feeling completely out of her depth as she followed him into the dark room.

 

Jughead was quick to make himself comfortable, tossing his bag on the computer chair before pulling the zipper open to grab some clothes. He did this all by the light of the fading sunlight beaming through the door, so Betty kept herself busy by turning all the lamps on, closing and locking the door behind her.

 

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be done in a jiffy.” Jughead closed himself in the bathroom without a backward glance, leaving Betty standing stock still in the middle of the room, brain tripping over Jughead’s casual use of the word “jiffy.”

 

What a strange word to come out of the mouth of Jughead Jones.

 

As soon as the sound of running water trickled into the room, Betty huffed, chuckling to herself as she felt herself finally unclench just a little.

 

Make herself comfortable.

 

Without an audience, that would be easy enough.

 

Now that Betty was sure that Jughead was here, things seemed easier. Her thoughts were quiet and calm as she went through the motions of placing her things on a strangely upholstered arm chair. Bag, jacket, then everything else. Comfortably reduced to nothing more than a thin t-shirt and panties, Betty stepped up to the bed, carefully untucking the blankets and sheets before climbing in.

 

The bed felt strange beneath her, the pillows stiff, and the blankets coarsely textured. Stretching out her legs, she lay herself flat against the mattress, willing either her body to conform to the mattress or for the mattress to accept her shape. Her neck felt awkwardly angled against the pillow, too unyielding to be used for anything. Betty wondered at how everything felt so different now.

 

Unwelcoming.

 

Reaching behind her, Betty grasped her pillows and pulled them off the bed, letting them fall heavily against the dirty carpet. Fisting her hands in the blanket, she pulled the edge up to her chin, completely covering her down to her pointed toes, feeling like the undead.

 

She stared at the popcorn ceiling, wishing she had thought to turn on the television for background noise before climbing into bed. But, now that she was here, she couldn’t find the energy to get back up. Betty let herself drown in the background noise of running water, eyes staring unfocused at the textured ceiling until she was no longer sure where she ended and the bed began.

 

In the back of her mind, Betty recognized that she was settling back into her old habit, when she would lie in her own bed at night and stare at the shapeless shadows on her ceiling until unconsciousness snuck up on her. She remembered trying to time the moments when she would finally feel tired, brain shutting down under the heavy cover of an impending dawn. It didn’t really matter. Whether Betty stared at the ceiling, or the back of her eyelids, it was a pointless endeavor to determine when she would inevitably fall asleep.

 

Closing her eyes, Betty tried to refocus. She needed her thoughts to stop wandering along these pointless paths, a tangle of aimless thoughts that cluttered over everything else.

 

She needed to function.

 

She needed to be here.

 

She needed to breathe.

 

Betty took a deep in hail of musty, synthetic fibers and cotton. She felt her chest expand, skin against the cotton of her shirt, and the less inviting texture of the bed sheets.

 

Her attention shifted to the bathroom, listening to the uneven splash of water on bathroom tile. She imagined Jughead in the shower. Washing his hair. Cleaning his body. Large hands going over an expanse of pale skin and dark hair. Did he have freckles? Scars? Tattoos?

 

Did he bother with hair conditioner? Did boys even _use_ hair conditioner?

 

When Jughead Jones showered in the half-scrubbed bathrooms of forgotten motels, was he cleaning himself, or washing away the last customer?

 

The water suddenly cut off, leaving the room almost deafening before Betty heard the harsh scrape of the shower curtain being pushed aside. Too focused on using her hearing, her attention immediately shifted to the whirr of the air conditioner, it’s mechanical engine filling the room with recycled air and cold.

 

Betty imagined the cold air finding a crack in the blankets, slithering in to find her bare skin. She shivered, flexing her toes, but keeping herself flat on the mattress despite her reflex to curl up and conserve heat.

 

The hotel room was cold. With her eyes closing away the warmth of lamp lighting, she could imagine that it felt almost institutional. Abandoned.

  
Like a padded room. A padded jacket.

 

The sudden shift in the mattress surprised Betty, eyes snapping open as she turned to see Jughead perched on the bed covers in a pair of sweats. His dark eyes were focused on her, hands running a white towel through his hair. She didn’t even hear the bathroom door open, she thought, embarrassment flushing her cheeks. She pulled the blanket higher.

 

He arched his eyebrows in response to her attention on him, completely uncaring about his shirtless state. “Do you always sleep like that?”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like a vampire in a coffin.”

 

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Betty flushed.

 

“Didn’t say you were,” he responded, throwing the towel to the floor before running his fingers into his damp hair, pushing it out of his face. “Is it comfortable?”

 

Betty blinked, quickly taking stock of her limbs. “It’s not _uncomfortable_. I just usually default to this when I sleep at home.”

 

“Small bed?”

 

“What? No, I have a queen at home.”

 

“Huh. Seems like a waste.” He shrugged off-handedly before reaching over to his bag and grabbing his phone. He took a quick detour to the tv, snatching up the remote and clicking it on before walking back to the bed.

 

Betty watched as he dropped the phone by his pillow, fluffing them up so that he could sit up. He lifted the blankets just enough to slip in, settling against the pillows after a few quick jabs with his elbow.

 

Once he was settled, he lifted the blankets a little, looking at Betty again. “Your move.”

 

It was just like that first night, Jughead’s arm lifted just slightly to open a direct path to his side, making the offer but not demanding.

 

All of Betty’s worries and inhibitions from the day just washed away. Without hesitation, she slid over to his side, forehead immediately pressing against his ribs, arm over his midsection, and their legs sliding against each other. With that one fluid shift, the mattress finally gave way beneath them, softening enough to fully take Betty’s weight, cradling her against Jughead as she sighed against his still-damp skin.

 

Suddenly, her senses were nothing but Jughead: the smell of his hotel shampoo and body wash, the solid-warm-damp feel of his body against hers, the sound of his breathing against her cheek. Her body already knew what to do, melting against him like they were old friends, a comfortable intimacy.

 

It wasn’t true, but it brought Betty comfort anyway.

 

Following the steps of their brand new normal, Jughead’s arm came around her, a solid band of warmth that completed the circle around her. His hand was large, wrapping almost completely around her shoulder, where it stayed. He slid his body down a little, staying reclined, but shifting just enough so that they fit together a little better.

 

“It’s still a bit early,” Jughead state, phone in his other hand. “Mind if I stay up a bit?”

 

“No, I don’t mind. It doesn’t bother me.” As if anything could. It was like Jughead’s body was a switch, instantly canceling out any external stimuli and silencing her thoughts with no effort at all. He could start playing a trumpet and it wouldn’t bother her in the slightest.

 

In addition to the sudden onslaught of comfort and silence, the exhaustion snuck up on her next. Eyelids satisfyingly heavy and warm from the inside out.

 

Betty closed her eyes, settling into position and comforted by the soft circles Jughead’s thumb rubbed into her skin. Hugs were nice. Head pats were ok. Holding hands was just fine. Sleeping with Veronica made her undeniably happy. But Jughead’s thumb? That tiny pressure of reassuring circles, tracing over and over into a permanent tattoo on her skin?

 

It was nirvana.

 

Something like home.

 

Betty was so grateful. So, so grateful.

 

“Thank you,” she breathed into his skin, hypnotized by the moment.

 

“No problem,” he whispered back.

 

His voice followed her into her dreams.

 

* * *

 

The morning after was almost a complete copy of their first.

 

Relishing the comfort of a full night's rest, Betty stretched into consciousness, curled into Jughead’s body.

 

She hadn’t moved even an inch in her sleep. But sometime in the night, Jughead had shifted even lower so that her cheek was pillowed by his shoulder. Opening her eyes, she only saw an expanse of Jughead’s chest, the blanket pushed a little further down. Her arm was exposed, still thrown over his midsection, only this time, his free hand was lightly running up and down her forearm.

 

It felt nice.

 

“Good morning.” His voice was deep and sleep heavy, a deep vibration against her.

 

Betty kept on staring at his hand on her arm. “Good morning. Do you sleep?”

 

“Sometimes. When I do sleep, I only need a few hours. Don’t need much.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“I don’t sleep nearly as hard as you. I don’t think anyone does.”

 

Betty shifted a little to relieve the pressure on her shoulder. She wasn’t used to sleeping on her side. “It doesn’t happen often. Just when, just when I’m with you. Or maybe Ronnie.”

 

“Ronnie. Veronica? Lodge?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“She your girlfriend?”

 

Betty blinked at that, not expecting the question. “Uh, if Ronnie and I were dating, I’d probably be with her right now. But no, she’s just a friend. My best friend.”

 

“Huh. Friends that sleep together?”

 

“Like how _we_ sleep together,” Betty sighed in exasperation. “Though Veronica and I usually lead into it with mani pedis or face masks.”

 

“Hm,” Jughead chuckled softly. “Platonic girl foreplay. Sounds like fun.”

 

“Well, I’ve never quite heard it described like that,” Betty couldn’t help the small grin. This conversation was so _ridiculous._

 

“How about these?” Jughead lightly gripped Betty’s arm, lifting it enough to expose the crescent scars in the meat of her palm and the paper thin scars that criss crossed the inside of her arm like lace above her inner elbow. “She know about these?”

 

Betty was long over the shame of her scars, accepting them as her way to cope, to stay grounded when things got _too_ bad. The urge to distract herself with something sharp hadn’t hit her since the first night she spent with Jughead . . . she had honestly forgotten about covering them while they slept. Long shirts and cardigans were in constant rotation in her wardrobe. There was never any reason to think about them.

 

She looked at them now and felt nothing.

 

“Yeah. She does. She understands.”

 

“Hm.”

 

Curious, Betty shifted away a little, resting her head further along Jughead’s upper arm so that she could easily angle her sight to read his face. This close, she could see a small crease from his pillow along his cheek, the elegant curves of thick eye lashes, and microscopic freckles on the crest of his nose. He seemed deep in thought.

 

“What does that mean?”

 

Jughead glanced at her. “Nothing. Just trying to understand Betty Cooper’s deal.”

 

“Then just ask,” Betty responded, shifting closer. “I have to admit. I’m also curious about Jughead’s deal.”

 

Jughead huffed. “Not much to it, Sunshine. Ya see what ya get.”

 

Classic deflection. Betty employed it enough around her parents and the other kids at school to easily recognize it.

 

It worried her a little. To know that there was a part of Jughead that he kept hidden from everyone. Even her. But as much as she wanted to know about him, about why he spent his time in this hotel, why he let adults do what they did to him, why he let the kids a school say what they said about him . . . she also knew that he didn’t trust her.

 

Sure, he trusted her enough to share a bed with her.

 

But to share his thoughts? His experiences? His thoughts?

 

That was too much.

 

Betty ached to know it all anyway.

 

So the first step would be hers.

 

“I don’t hate myself,” she whispered against his skin, spreading her fingers over his side. “Pain just helps sometimes.”

 

“Pain helps,” Jughead’s soft spoken words seemed like an automatic repeat of her statement, spoken without any thought.

 

Betty wondered if he could relate. “When my thoughts are too loud, and I’ve had too little sleep, and I just can’t seem to fit right in my own skin. When it’s all just too much. The pain helps.”

 

Her thoughts turned inwards, remembering the last time she took a razor to her own skin, locked in the back of her closet while her parents hosted guests downstairs, completely unaware of their own daughter’s needs. Such callow needs.

 

Needs she should have grown out of.

 

That was almost a month ago.

 

It felt like a lifetime.

 

“My solutions are inconvenient,” Betty admitted. “Something broken in the connection between my brain and my nerve endings. I need touch. I’m tactile. And I was born to parents that love me, but don’t understand. I have friends that aren’t as tactile as I need them to be. I mean, even Ronnie. She does what she can, but she’s not a touchy-feely person either.”

 

Jughead didn’t lean away from her, simply listening to her story and matching his breathing to hers. Betty found their synced bodies comforting, closing her eyes. “And my academic track.”

 

“High Achievement Cooper.”

 

“Y-yeah. I mean, I can handle the stress and responsibilities. I believe in myself and I’m proud of what I have achieved in school. But it’s a double edged sword. High achieving students can’t be flawed, Jughead. If they have a flaw then it means they failed.”

 

“This is you handling it? Sleeping with me?”

 

“I have a flaw, Jughead. And if I can’t rely on my family to help me with that flaw, I have to find other means to deal with it.”

 

“Me.”

 

“You.”

 

Betty thought about facing the world outside of the hotel room. Dressing with her back to Jughead, and begging for another night like a junkie craving her next fix. She needed this so bad. She needed Jughead so bad. “You didn’t ask questions, Jughead. I mean, yeah, I’m sure I looked absolutely crazy that night, but you still let me stay. You didn’t call me crazy and kicked me out to fend for myself. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. I didn’t need you to.

 

“And last night. You got into bed and let me use you as a full-sized teddy bear. And you didn’t even bat an eye. You didn’t judge. It’s just what I need.”

 

Jughead didn’t respond for a while, his eyes focused on some invisible point on the ceiling. His thumb was still on her shoulder.

 

Betty waited.

 

“I’m not your hero.”

 

Betty begged to differ. But she also knew that wasn’t what Jughead wanted to hear. “Your my fix.”

 

That startled a laugh out of Jughead. “A fix? Your fix? What, like a junkie? Are you addicted to me, Betty Cooper.”

 

The joke was safe. As hard as it was to hear from Jughead, like this, Betty played along. “Well, you do make a very good bedfellow.”

 

“Bedfellow,” Jughead snorted, his thumb moving against her skin again. “I should get that printed on some business cards.”

 

“That’s a very . . . strange idea.”

 

“Well, what can I say? You inspire some strange ideas in me, Sunshine. I mean, you are the only person in a fifty mile radius that I only sleep with.” Jughead reached up and rubbed at the crown of his head. “And I agreed to it.”

 

 _I know these nights help you, too, Jughead_. Betty wanted to say.

 

“You are so strange.”

 

Betty decided not to take offense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Silence Looks Good On You by Rachel Taylor.
> 
> I don’t know how long this fic is going to be, unlike with Playlist Amour (which I had outlined COMPLETELY prior to the first chapter), this one is going to be very off the cuff. 
> 
> That being said, if there is anything you want to see or recommend in this verse, drop me a line on Tumblr! I’m @1sleepydormouse.
> 
> Till next time, lovelies.

**Author's Note:**

> Title of the fic was pulled from Nicki Minaj’s “Save Me.” I don’t think I’ll NOT associate these two with a song when I write! XP
> 
> Please drop me a comment! <3


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